...september, i'll remem-ember...

So...this week has been kind of glum, for reasons that I will be talking about in the not too distant future. But for now, other things.
Jeremy showed me some action...that is, the action in our piano! He had his first two classes this week and is on his way to being a fantastic piano tuner. I'm very proud of him. There's a lot of stuff going on, on the inside of a piano. Man, who invented them? Who thought up all those intricate parts? Who discovered/invented anything? Phew...it makes me wonder sometimes...I'm not sure if I have ever discovered anything new. I'm not exactly the inventor type, though I can build/create lots of different stuff. When I was a kid, I wanted to be McGuyver really bad and make explosives from paper clips and erasers. I could never quite get it to work...then again, I used to play QVC when I was alone sometimes. I'd get a ring or something and do my best pitch as to why all my imaginary viewers needed this item and FAST. It's not like my Mom, or anyone in my family, were QVC people either... It's amazing I made so many friends.
So we'll end with...an ode to things, by none other than Pablo Neruda. I just feel in the mood for this, so indulge me. I'm only doing the English translation though. This is one of my all time favorite poems, so enjoy.

I have a crazy,
crazy love of things.
I like pliers,
and scissors.
I love
cups,
rings,
and bowls-
not to speak, of course,
of hats.
I love
all things,
not just
the grandest,
also
the
infinite-
ly
small-
thimbles,
spurs,
plates,
and flower vases.

Oh yes,
the planet
is sublime!
It's full of
pipes
weaving
hand-held
through tobacco smoke,
and keys
and salt shakers-
everything,
I mean,
that is made
by the hand of man, every little thing:
shapely shoes,
and fabric,
and each new
bloodless birth
of gold,
eyeglasses,
carpenter's nails,
brushes,
clocks, compasses,
coins, and the so-soft
softness of chairs.

Mankind has
built
oh so many
perfect
things!
Built them of wool
and of wood,
of glass and
of rope:
remarkable
tables,
ships, and stairways.

I love
all
things,
not because they are
passionate
or sweet-smelling
but because,
I don't know,
because
this ocean is yours,
and mine:
these buttons
and wheels
and little
forgotten
treasures,
fans upon
whose feathers
love has scattered
its blossoms,
glasses, knives and
scissors-
all bear
the trace
of someone's fingers
on their handle or surface,
the trace of a distant hand
lost
in the depths of forgetfulness.

I pause in houses,
streets and
elevators,
touching things,
identifying objects
that I secretly covet:
this one because it rings,
that one because
it's as soft
as the softness of a woman's hip,
that one there for its deep-sea color,
and that one for its velvet feel.

O irrecvocable
river
of things:
no one can say
that I loved
only
fish,
or the plants of the jungle and the field,
that I loved
only
those things that leap and climb, desire, and survive.
It's not true:
many things conspired
to tell me the whole story.
Not only did they touch me,
or my hand touched them:
they were
so close
that they were a part
of my being,
they were so alive with me
that they lived half my life
and will die half my death.